Me, You, And The Devil In The Corner Of The Room
by Lennelle
Summary: Sam wakes up miserable. He'd gone to every length to avoid catching Dean's flu; washed his hands every five minutes, kept a clear distance from his sick brother. When Dean recovered, Sam had figured he'd dodged a bullet.


**Important note:** I wrote this ficlet a month ago on my tumblr (I'm boykvngs but was magnoliasam when I posted this) and recently another writer posted a fic which was very similar, with similar scenes, plot and almost identical dialogue in some places. Their fic has since been taken down but I thought I would post mine here since I hadn't before. Some of this story may sound very familiar to some of you, but please know these are my own words which I wrote myself a month ago. Even in fanfiction, it's not cool to steal other peoples' writing. I've messaged this person about it and I won't post their username, I think that would be unfair.

It's ok to be inspired by someone else's fic. Two writers can create totally different stories based on the same concept, but copying is not taking inspiration. I just wanted to talk about this here because I think it happens quite often and it can be upsetting to see your own writing under someone else's name. Thanks for reading this, I hope you enjoy the fic. If you have the time, your comments would be especially appreciated.

* * *

Sam wakes up miserable. He'd gone to every length to avoid catching Dean's flu; washed his hands every five minutes, kept a clear distance from his sick brother. When Dean recovered, Sam had figured he'd dodged a bullet.

Until he wakes up, dry-mouthed, his nose clocked and head pounding. The first thing he'd done was go right back to sleep, stayed that way well into the afternoon, then woke up to his brother's concerned face rattling a bottle of pills at him.

"Looks like you got what I had," Dean says, dropping a couple of the pills onto his palm. "Open up."

"You did this to me," Sam accuses, but his words come out a garbled mess, his throat red-raw. He doesn't even lift his head for the glass of water Dean offers.

"Don't be so dramatic," Dean says. "We live in each other's pockets. I get the flu, you get the flu. Now, come on, you need to hydrate."

Sam feels like doing nothing but sleeping, but he can't deny his mouth is dryer than Death Valley. He props himself up as best he can, muscles aching with the slightest movement. The water tastes bad, or maybe that's just his mouth. He manages, painfully, to swallow a couple of pills, and Dean leaves him to sleep some more.

Sam barely manages to close his eyes. He feels something warm and wet swipe across his cheek and he startles awake. Lucifer is sitting right in front of him, a smug look on his face.

"You okay?" Dean asks from the corner table. He peers over the laptop at Sam, concerned.

"I'm fine," Sam insists. Dean shrugs and takes a swig from his flask, attention returning to whatever's on the screen. Articles about Dick Roman, no doubt.

"You don't looks so good, bud," Lucifer says. "Want me to play nurse."

Sam's nails dig into his scarred palm hard enough to leave bloody dents. Lucifer flickers out of sight and Sam rolls over and sleeps.

He's woken again in the dark, sometime late in the evening, as Dean gets him to drink some more water and take some more pills. "Do you want something to eat?" he asks.

Sam shakes his head. He thinks if he tries swallowing anything right now, it'll just come hurtling back up again.

"Let me rephrase," Dean says. "You're gonna eat something, what do you want?"

"Not hungry," Sam grumbles.

"Peanut butter and banana sandwich," Dean suggests, ignoring Sam. "You used to love those as a kid. I'll stop by the grocery store and stock up. Won't be long, okay?"

Sam watches lazily as Dean pulls on his jacket, and tries his best to ignore the charred figure lingering in the corner of the room, a tuft of yellow curls still clinging to their head.

"You need anything, call me," Dean orders. "Just try to get some rest and I'll be back soon."

"Mmmkay," Sam mumbles, eyes already dipping shut again. He hears the door click shut and slips back into uneasy dreams. They come in flashes, his brain too foggy to hold onto anything too long, but when he wakes he can still smell burned flesh, despite his blocked nose.

Dean stands above him. "We gotta go," he says. Sam notices his hands are empty of any grocery bags.

"What time is it?" Sam asks, trying to find a clock.

"We gotta go," Dean says again. "Cops are sniffing around."

Sam forces himself upright, squeezing his eyes shut at the onslaught of dizziness. Dean waits for him by the door, an impatient look on his face, as Sam hauls himself out of bed. This high up the dizziness is worse and Sam has to keep himself from face-planting with a hand against the wall. He's still dressed in an old t-shirt and sweats, only a pair of socks on his feet.

"Come on," Dean hisses.

"Can't find my shoes," Sam answers, shuffling around. He's already broken out into a sweat, breathless.

"No time, just go without," Dean says. Sam supposes they've dealt with worse. He just has to walk from the room to the car, shoeless, then he's free to pass out again. However, once they're outside, Sam sees no sign of their stolen car in the parking lot.

"Had to ditch it," Dean explains. "We'll find another one."

He marches off without another word and Sam stumbles after him. Every bone in his body seems to ache, his vision has split into two, and he's not sure how much energy he has left before he's unable to keep walking. He pauses across the street and leans against a tree, trying to catch his breath. All they've done is cross to the other side of the road and Sam's already ready to pass the fuck out.

"Get a move on, Sam," Dean barks from up ahead. Sam squints, can barely see Dean in the dark. His vision is suddenly encompassed in white, he squeezes his eyes shut and loses balance, stumbling to his knees.

He hears a car door open, and footsteps. His heart picks up its pace. He didn't hear a siren, didn't catch sight of a cop car. He should have spotted them approaching. He just hopes Dean got away.

"Sammy?" says the cop. Except it's not a cop, that's Dean's voice. Sam squints up the sidewalk and sees no sign of his brother, Dean is suddenly behind him, gently turning him around. "Sam, what are you doing out here?" he asks.

"But… but you said," Sam begins, and only as he says it does he realise how wrong he was. "It wasn't real."

"What wasn't real?" Dean asks, his voice rising as he starts to panic. "Jesus, dude, you're shivering."

He pulls Sam up onto his feet and slowly walks him to the car, which is haphazardly parked on the side of the road. Sam can see paper grocery bags in the back seat.

They drive quietly back across the street to the motel, and Dean helps Sam back into their room and into bed. As he pulls up the covers, Sam feels like a little kid.

"Were you, uh, seeing things?" he asks.

"I-I didn't know," Sam says. "I'm sorry."

Dean's palm reaches out and rest against his forehead. Sam sighs and leans into the cool touch. "You're burning up," Dean says. "Let me get you a cold cloth."

He disappears into the bathroom and Sam kicks his covers back off, panting in the heat, only to pull them back up again with a sudden chill. Dean returns and presses a cool cloth to Sam's face. He doesn't say anything, neither of them do, but Sam sees the worried crease on his brow. It'll make a permanent mark, it's there so often now, even more so since they lost Bobby.

Dean takes up the empty side of the bed and switches on the TV, settling on some over-the-top action movie. Sam curls into his pillow, drifting off to the sounds of gunfire and explosions. He dreams easy for the first time in a while.


End file.
